Thy welbelovyd childe thou must now kylle, To God thou offyr hym, as I say, Evyn upon ȝon hey hylle, That I the shewe here in the way. Tarye not be nyght nor day, But smertly thi gate thou goo; Upon ȝon hille thou knele and pray To God, and kylle the childe ther and scloo! _Abraham._ Now Goddys comaundement must nedys be done, Alle his wyl is wourthy to be wrought; But ȝitt the fadyr to scle the sone, Grett care it causyth in my thought. In byttyr bale now am I brought My swete childe with knyf to kylle; But ȝit my sorwe avaylith ryght nowth, For nedys I must werke Goddys wylle. With evy hert I walke and wende, My childys deth now for to be, Now must the fadyr his suete sone schende Alas! for ruthe it is peté! My swete sone, come hedyr to me: How, Isaac, my sone dere, Com to thi ffadyr, my childe so fre, ffor we must wende to-gedyr in fere. _Isaac._ Alle redy fadyr, evyn at ȝour wylle, And at ȝour byddyng I am ȝow by, With ȝow to walk ovyr dale and hille, At ȝoure callyng I am redy. To the fadyr evyr most comly, It ovyth the childe evyr buxom to be; I wyl obey, ful hertyly, To alle thyng that ȝe bydde me. _Abraham._ Now, son, in thi necke this fagot thou take, And this fyre here in thinne honde, ffor we must now sacrefyse go make, Evyn aftyr the wylle of Goddys sonde. Take this brennyng bronde, My swete childe, and lete us go; Ther may no man that levyth in londe, Have more sorwe than I have wo. _Ysaac._ ffayr fadyr, ȝe go ryght stylle, I pray ȝow, fadyr, speke onto me. _Abraham._ Mi gode childe, what is thi wylle? Telle me thyn hert, I pray to the. _Ysaac._ ffadyr, fyre and wood here is plenté, But I kan se no sacryfice; What ȝe xulde offre fayn wold I se, That it were don at the best avyse. _Abraham._ God xal that ordeyn that sytt in hevynne, My swete sone, ffor this offryng, A derrere sacryfice may no man nempne, Than this xal be, my dere derlyng. _Ysaac._ Lat be, good fadyr, ȝour sad wepynge! ȝour hevy cher agrevyth me sore: Telle me, fadyr, ȝour grett mornyng, And I xal seke sum help therfore. _Abraham._ Alas! dere sone, for nedys must me, Evyn here the kylle, as God hath sent; Thyn owyn fadyr thi deth must be,— Alas! that evyr this bowe was bent. With this fyre bryght thou must be brent, An aungelle seyd to me ryght so: Alas! my chylde, thou xalt be shent! Thi careful fadyr must be thi ffo!